For the Movies: The Deleted Scenes
by acciograce
Summary: These outtakes were left on the cutting room floor. Written for Prompts in Panem. Ratings will run the gamut. Scene 1 - Rated T Scene 2 - Rated M Scene 3 - Rated very M
1. While you're busy making other plans

**NOTE: **This takes place between chapter seven and chapter eight (post-awkward photoshoot/pre-Ireland). These scenes will range in rating - this one is T, the next one will be M.

* * *

**_ CaesarFlickrman_**_ O.M.G.! Is that a baby bump for KatnissEverdeen? Vote yay or nay on the blog now!_

Peeta tries to stifle a laugh. Though I'm not sure if it's because of the dumbfounded expression on my face, or the sheer ridiculousness of what Caesar Flickerman is implying about our relationship.

"I – I can't –" I stutter as I stare at the grainy paparazzi photo on my iPad screen. In the picture, I'm walking out of our favorite coffee shop in downtown Ithaca, a large drink in hand; Peeta is a couple of steps behind me, holding the door open as I pass through. Always the gentleman.

I guess I can _sort-of_ see what Caesar's getting at. My stomach is jutting out a bit with the way I'm positioned – angled slightly away from the camera and bending back like I'm saying something to Peeta. And it was really windy yesterdy. So when the photo was snapped, my loose-fitting deep green blouse bunched around my torso in such a way that it created the illusion of a little extra weight.

Maybe in some alternate universe, where Peeta and I are actually madly in love and not just pretending we are when we're out in public, it could look like a baby bump. Maybe.

The worst part about the picture is that someone – probably Caesar himself – used Photoshop to draw childish little red hearts all around me and what I'm guessing is supposed to be a stork flying away from the both of us with a winking grin.

No, I take that back. The worst part is the article itself, which I read allowed to Peeta.

"'Looks like the fiery passion between our favorite _Stars Falling_co-stars has put a bun in the oven! These pictures, taken just yesterday near the studio where Everlark are shooting the second installment of the wildly popular _Space Between_ series, show what appears to be a pregnant Katniss Everdeen with her one true love, Peeta Mellark. Could it be true? If so, I think Caesar is a_wonderful_ name for a baby boy.'"

I swear, I can laugh off most of this stuff. I can. But this is just too much.

"Well this certainly lends credence to that whole immaculate conception thing, huh?" Peeta finally says, looking at me with a barely-contained amusement. "Maybe you should give more thought to accepting Jesus as your personal savior."

He grins at me, then – that endearing, wide smile that he only flashes when he's trying to get me to reflect it back to him. The one that says, _Hey, isn't this all so funny and weird and insane? Let's laugh about it before we go crazy_.

"Like I'd ever name a kid Caesar," I grumble, which earns me a laugh. Peeta leans back on my bed then, his legs stretched out in front of him.

"No?"

I wrinkle my nose. "Definitely not."

"Yeah, me either," he says after a moment's consideration. "Too much like salad dressing. Or, you know, political assassination. But then, my name sounds an awful lot like bread…"

"You don't say."

The look he shoots my way says _watch it_. I look back at him innocently until he sighs and finishes his thought.

"I'd probably go for something a little more traditional, a little less food-centric."

It's a strange conversation to be having – kids. Children. Like it's something we'd even think about doing at this point in our lives. Or ever.

"I'll stick with the non-existent kind of kids. The ones you can't mess up."

Peeta looks at me thoughtfully for a moment before replying. "I think you'd be a great mom. I mean, look at Prim. You basically raised her."

"Yeah, and look at how well that's going," I mumble.

He shrugs. "She's acing school. From the way you tell it, she's amazingly well adjusted. I'd say it's going pretty well."

And that's Peeta in a nutshell – so effortless in his ability to turn a conversation around – to level set, to remind me of the good, to find something positive where I would sink into negativity.

"I don't want to contribute to overpopulation. Resources are scarce enough as it is," I say, finally, though a part of me regrets it as soon as the harsh words leave my mouth.

It's the kind of thing I say to people like Effie, or Madge, or even Gale when they ask me why I'm so adamant about forgoing parenthood.

The truth is, the idea of being a mother – of having a child, and either not being able to provide for it, or maybe worse than that, _losing_ it, terrifies me.

But that's definitely not Peeta's fault.

"That's me, though. You'll probably have a little brood of mini-yous running around in no time."

"That's been my plan all along. Overpopulate the planet one blonde-haired, blue-eyed, baked-good loving baby at a time," he says flippntly.

"Don't even act like you wouldn't spoil the hell out of a kid."

"No, I'd love to have a couple kids," he agrees. "But not for a while. Not out in L.A., that's for sure. I'd have to move, I think. Back to Michigan, or maybe somewhere else. Somewhere we could walk to a park instead of drive an hour. Somewhere with seasons."

"You're totally the guy who builds snowmen and does math homework and bakes cookies with his kids, aren't you?"

There's a playful quality to my question – I'm ribbing him, really. Making fun of the fact that he's just such a ridiculously nice guy. But there's a genuine softness to the smile he gives me in return.

"I'd like to think I'd be. Except the math part."

We're quiet for a moment.

"My dad was that guy," I tell him. I don't talk about my father much – I try not to even think about him – but it seems fitting to pay respect to what a great parent he was. Always doting, patient and kind. Everything my mother stopped being after he died.

"I'm sorry you didn't get more time with him." And it's such a simple statement, really – a platitude that I heard so many times when Dad first passed away. I quickly grew tired of hearing it. But I know that Peeta means it, and that makes the sting of his memory just a little less severe.

"Just don't up and die on yours when they still need you, okay?"

"I'll do my best."

I clear my throat to clear the air. Not because I'm going to cry, because I don't cry about my dad anymore. And I definitely wouldn't be rude enough to cry about him in front of Peeta.

Besides, he's somber enough as it is now. And between the melancholy look in his eyes and the way his lips hang in a pensive frown, I can't help but notice it. He looks so _young_ – like a boy, not a young man with a heavy burden to bear.

But then it's not hard to see it, a few years from now – just like he said when we were on the plane a couple weeks ago.

_In ten years, we'll be old and boring and married with kids._

And while I'm sure Peeta will be married – probably to some painfully gorgeous woman – I doubt he'll be boring. He couldn't be.

He'll be stupidly happy, I think, with a baby hoisted up in his arms, another one clinging to his legs. He'll be doting, and patient, and kind. That's a sure bet - he's already so good with kids. Whenever some love-struck preteen runs up to him for an autograph, dragging their oblivious little sibling behind them, Peeta always makes sure they both leave with a smile.

Yeah, he'll definitely be a great dad someday. Even if I can't fathom the idea of having kids myself, I have to admit that can't wait to see what he'll do with his own. The world needs more people like Peeta Mellark.

"So these kids of yours."

He raises an eyebrow. "My hypothetical future offspring? Or the one we're naming Caesar? I'm having a hard time keeping track."

I toss the pillow at him, then. "Yours. I get to meet them right?"

He takes longer than I expect to answer. For just a fleeting moment, a look of sadness flits through his eyes. It's strange. Something I'm not used to seeing.

But then he sighs quietly, almost inaudibly; closes his eyes for just a second. And when he opens them to look at me again, it's there again – the playful. The one that tells me yes. That this strange bond we've formed will stretch long into the future – to a time when we don't have to worry about early morning set calls and power-drunk movie studio presidents.

"Meet them? You'll be crazy, grumpy Aunt Katniss. The one with loads of money and like, seven ornery cats."

"I hate cats."

"I know. I remember." he says without pause. "What about dogs?"

"I could deal with a dog, maybe," I concede.

With that smile on his face, he looks like he could be about ten years old.

"What would you name it?"

Try as I might, I can't think of a single name for my possibly-future canine companion. Because truth be told, I don't want a dog – I just said I did to appease him.

But who knows. At this point, if I've learned anything, it's that things change. Hell, look how much I've changed lately. In five years, maybe I _will_want a dog. Besides his good mood is too infectious – I can't help but play along.

"I'm thinking maybe Caesar."

- end -


	2. We're speaking in bodies

**NOTE: **This takes place in the midst of chapter 17, between Peeta and Katniss' conversation with Haymitch and the planning session at Finnick's apartment.

* * *

"Oh god, yeah. Right there."

Peeta's hands work my muscles like they're dough – meticulously, gently kneading until I'm soft and pliant beneath him. His breath is even and warm on my neck, the pattern of his movements hypnotic as I focus on the feeling of his skin against mine.

"How's this?"

"It's perfect," I moan under my breath as I lean into him, resting the back of my head against his chest.

He keeps up the good work – massaging my shoulders with his strong, warm hands.

And god, it feels incredible – like he's freeing every last bit of stress and tension from my body. It might be my favorite thing ever.

"Why are you so good at this?"

I can hear the smirk in his voice when he responds. "I like making you feel good."

His response is innocent enough, but it sends a thrill through me nonetheless. Mostly because of how often he's been making me feel … _good_ lately. Like, every night. Usually twice.

And I force my eyes open, tilting my head back to look at him. He gazes down at me, eyes relaxed and happy and appropriately dreamy. Claudius Templesmith could probably sell a million copies of _Haute Cinema_ if he took a photo of Peeta right now and put it on the cover. The entire world would fall in love with him. That's how stunning he is in this moment, with that look of pure adoration on his face.

And that look is for me. I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around that idea.

I tilt my head up more, hoping he'll catch my drift and meet me halfway because all I want right now is to have his lips on mine…

"Seriously, you two are disgusting. Get a room."

Leave it to Johanna to ruin a perfectly good moment. As our co-star strides by us, she looks at us pointedly, rolling her eyes.

"Nice to see you, too, Jo," Peeta greets with a thin smile. She flips up her middle finger in response as she stalks off toward craft services. "She's sweet."

"Great timing, too."

Peeta squeezes my shoulders gently, then, his fingertips massaging the muscles there once more before he slides both hands down my arms and steps away from me.

"She's probably right."

"You were just giving me a massage. Totally innocent," I argue as I plop down onto a worn bench in the corner of the room.

"Yeah, but we're on set," he says with a shrug, moving to sit next to me. "Not an ideal location for me to have my hands all over you."

I can't pinpoint why, but I'm growing increasingly frustrated at his resistance. "Isn't that what we're _supposed_ to be doing? Especially…" I pause to lower my voice, "Especially now?"

Peeta smirks at me then, which only makes me angrier.

"What?" I demand, actually huffing as I glare at him.

He wraps an arm around my shoulder then, leaning in like he's going to kiss me on the cheek. But his lips move to my ear, instead.

"It's different now," he whispers, his voice husky. "Because when I touch you like that, all I can think about is what else I could be doing to get you to make those amazing noises you were making."

How is it that words – just his _words_, and okay, fine, the way he says them – can make me so wet?

"Yeah?" I challenge.

He kisses my temple then, glancing around the large space briefly to see if we're being watched. "Yeah," he responds. "But I'm greedy. I want them all to myself."

Every second that he looks at me like that – like he's picturing me naked – makes my need for him to touch me again grow stronger. I boldly run a hand up and down his leg, trailing my fingers along his knee before delicately brushing against the inside of his thigh. He swallows hard.

"You have to stop," he says. "Someone's going to see."

In the back of my mind, I know he's right. It's one thing to continue on with the charade we built up in the weeks before we came to Ireland – playful flirtations at best, though they felt like so much more at the time.

We were always so cautious, so calculated in our actions. And I was always so in tune with what was going on around us – I could sense when we were being watched; when it was time to turn on the act.

But since our relationship changed, it seems like every touch, every look we share, is charged with the same electric undercurrent that draws us to one another every night. We have to be careful with our kisses if we sneak them out in public. It's too easy to get carried away.

Case in point: five minutes ago when all it took for me to do my best _When Harry Met Sally_ deli scene impersonation was an innocent backrub. And I didn't even care who saw.

Second case in point: The fact that I'm pretty much running a hand over his crotch, out in the open where anyone with halfway decent vision will be able to see.

Who am I, and what have I done with myself?

I look around the large space. The interior set that Capitol Films has built for us seems to stretch on for miles. We've been waiting almost an hour for the next set-up, and it doesn't look like they'll be ready for us any time soon. All around us, crewmembers are milling about, snacking on food from craft services. No one seems to be concerned with us at all.

When I turn my attention back to Peeta, I notice that his eyes are fixed on my mouth. Then I feel his hand on my knee, squeezing it softly before it starts to travel slowly up my skirt. God, he's just as bad as I am.

"Do you think anyone would notice if we disappeared for a minute or two?" I ask quietly. And it's like I can actually see the thoughts in his head as he weighs our options. It only takes him a matter of seconds to make up his mind.

"Your trailer or mine?"

* * *

Last night, Peeta spent a good twenty minutes just undressing me. He made sure to kiss every inch of my skin as he reverently removed first my tank top and sleep shorts, and then my bra and panties. His mouth trailed up and down my legs, across my hips and torso, and finally in between and all over my breasts, as though he were memorizing every line, every crease, every freckle and scar and imperfection.

I felt every single press of his mouth on my flesh. Sometimes the kisses were affectionate, soft; others playful, nips and gentle bites. The wet, open ones made me moan low in my throat.

And when his lips found mine, his fingers trailed up my thigh. I opened my mouth and my legs to him, and he kissed me, long and deep and unrelenting as his tongue matched the rhythm of his fingers inside me and I shuddered against his hand.

And then he just kept kissing me. Like we had all the time in the world.

Today, it's a completely different story. The second we enter my trailer and Peeta shuts the door behind him, I launch myself into his arms. He's there to catch me, kissing me passionately, and we stumble as one toward the narrow sofa in the corner of my trailer. Peeta lands first and pulls me on top of him, his hands holding fast to my waist.

He sits up long enough for me to pull off his t-shirt and then strip off my own costume – a dowdy looking grey tunic dress – and throw it on the floor.

And then his hands are in my hair, and my hands are on his face. We're kissing again desperately, both fully aware of the precious seconds we have before we'll be missed.

"Fuck, Katniss," he hisses as I trail my hands down his chest and start to fumble with the button on his pants. Within seconds, we've managed to maneuver around each other in a way that lets him kick them off, leaving him in just his boxers. And now he's staring up at me, his hands moving to cup my breasts through the fabric of my thin lace bra. "Take this off."

"What if somebody walks in?" I ask breathlessly. He raises his eyebrows at me, and I realize the state we're already in – half-naked, panting and disheveled. I laugh as I move to unclasp the bra. He hooks his fingers around the straps and slides them down my shoulders, an erotic move that makes me shiver with pleasure.

"Look at you," he breathes as he stares up at me. His thumbs trace over my nipples before he cups both my breasts in his hands. "How are you even real?"

I moan as I arch into his touch and grind my hips into his. It feels so good that I have to do it again – harder this time, and we both groan at the delicious sensation. But then Peeta's hands fall to my hips, and he stills them.

"We have to… ungh," he says, his eyes rolling back briefly when I press down into him again. "Katniss, people are gonna know what we're doing in here."

And I get what he means – Finnick's trailer is on the other side of mine, and I know for a fact that the walls that separate us are thin as paper. He could be in there right now, prepping for our scene.

On top of that, the foundation that these small spaces sit on are less than sturdy; all someone has to do is walk quickly across the floor and they'll noticeably rock back and forth. I can only imagine what it will look like – and sound like - if we keep this up. But my brain is so clouded by lust that I almost don't care.

"Stay still." He says, then, resting his hands on my hips and stopping them. And there's something so overwhelmingly sexy about the tone in his voice that I can't help but listen, even though I'm so turned on it actually hurts to stop.

This side of him is intoxicating. It's one I've only seen when we're alone like this. Insistent, dominant… a little bit bossy, even. And the things he says when he's turned on are downright dirty, like something out of the bawdy romance novels Effie reads. This Peeta is so unlike the man the rest of the world sees. This Peeta is just for me.

And knowing that thrills me just as much as the rest of it.

I whimper his name as I thrust my pelvis down onto him again.

"I got you," he promises. And with those words, he gently moves me so that I'm straddling one of his legs. When I tilt my hips down experimentally, I'm rewarded with an immediate, immense jolt of pleasure as my clit makes contact with the bare skin of his upper thigh. Even through my underwear, it feels amazing.

"Is this good?" He asks gruffly, his eyes flickering over my face to take in my reaction. I can only nod and suck my lower lip into my mouth as I move over him again. He keeps his hands on my hips, helping me press down into him as I work toward my release. And it's perfect, really, because I barely need to move to get the friction that I need.

I moan loudly, frantically pushing my hands into his boxers and grasping for his cock. It seems so unfair for him to just have to sit and watch me when he's making me feel so good.

"Not yet," he says insistently. "I just want to watch you ride me."

I moan again, bucking down and squeezing my legs tighter around him.

"I've thought about you being on top of me so many times. How amazing it would be to watch you come while you're writhing like that."

He runs his hands up my stomach to cup my breasts.

"Do you have any idea how hot it is when you move like that? Just the way your tits look alone could get me off for days."

"Peeta, I'm so close," I whimper. And after spending hours in bed with me, he knows that what I want more than anything when I finally reach the breaking point is his mouth on mine.

We move at almost exactly the same time, he tangles his hands in my hair and pulls me into a kiss his while I reach into his underwear and wrap my hand around his erection. I pump it up and down in time with the restricted movement of my hips.

"Just like that," he groans against my mouth before running his tongue along my bottom lip. Our lips meet in a bruising kiss and as I swivel my pelvis down one last time, I shatter against him. As I ride out my orgasm, he lifts his hips into my hands and lets out a strangled moan. Seconds later, his comes, and I let the hot liquid of his release coat my trembling fingers.

Even though I know we need to get moving – clean up, and get dressed, and sneak back onto set before a production assistant comes looking for us – I can't bring myself to move. It feels too good lying here, collapsed on top of him, his fingers running the length of my spine.

"This is pretty great," he says, his twirling a piece of my hair around his finger.

"What?" I ask, still so spent that it's hard to muster the energy to speak.

"You, basically naked on top of me," he explains. "It doesn't suck."

I lift my head, resting my chin on his chest so I can look at him. "You're so dirty."

He grins, "And that's a bad thing?"

I shake my head, unable to keep the smile off my face. "No. I think it might be my favorite thing."

Peeta pushes my hair behind my ear and studies my face for a moment, before running his thumb down my jaw. "What _is_ your favorite thing?"

I falter slightly. "Um. This?"

He smiles softly. "No, seriously."

And I feel it for a second – that uncomfortable closing off in my chest. The automatic reaction to having to share some deeper part of myself.

But then I look in his eyes – see the clear blue there that I know with total certainty I can trust him.

"The woods," I tell him. "Being in the woods."

"Like the ones by your old house," he says – it's not a question. He just understands. I've told him about how I used to take long walks with my dad on the weekends, listening to the sounds in the trees all around us. Learning birdcalls and what berries we could pick for an early afternoon snack.

And how I went there after he died, sometimes – even though I had to walk for blocks to get there. Just to listen, and to walk, and to try to feel the same peace I felt when I walked with his hand in mine.

"Like the ones by my old house," I confirm. "What's yours?"

He doesn't hesitate like I did. One of the things I like best about Peeta – how open and unguarded he can be. "A really good sunset. The kind that changes the whole sky."

And if it were anyone else on the planet, I'd think it was some kind of line – something he said to make me think he was some sensitive guy who loved kittens and orphans and walks on the beach.

But I know he's not lying. I _know_ that Peeta has somehow made it through this crazy life – movie sets and decadent parties and million dollar paychecks – and still appreciate the sun setting in the sky.

I want to tell him that's what I like about him. I want to sit on a beach with him, and watch his face as the sun goes down.

But I can't find the words to tell him any of this. So I just kiss him again until we absolutely have to go back.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, I'm back on set, and busy filling a plate with fruit and sandwiches when Johanna comes up behind me.

"You guys are way too obvious, you know," she informs me with a smirk.

"What?"

"You and your boyfriend, sneaking off like that."

And to my surprise, I don't mind that she's ribbing me yet again for my relationship with Peeta. I'm too busy letting the word _boyfriend_ bounce around in my brain before it settles comfortably.

Boyfriend.

We spend all our time together. We trust each other, and care about each other. We like being naked together.

Boyfriend.

It's a reality I hadn't even considered – strange, I know, but I've been so busy being _in _it that I hadn't thought to name it. But it's definitely a reality.

Peeta's my boyfriend.

And _that_ might be my new favorite thing.

— end —


	3. It's driving me mad

"Do you think we spend too much time making out?"

It's probably a strange thing to ask - or at the very least a strange time. I mean, my legs are tangled with Peeta's, and his mouth doing incredible things to the skin just under my ear. We've been like this for a good half an hour, just enjoying the feel of each other.

But it's been on my mind for most of the afternoon, so the question just sort of… comes out.

Peeta freezes like a kid who's been caught examining presents under the Christmas tree. "What?"

It's Johanna's fault I'm even asking this question. She made some snide remark earlier today about how much time Peeta and I have been spending together, and it rubbed me the wrong way.

And it got me thinking. Since Peeta and I transitioned into a more intimate relationship, we've spent a lot of time together alone. Not during the day – we're too busy filming. And the last two evenings, we've been planning diligently for Plutarch's big coup.

But most nights, we escape the first chance we get. To his apartment, or sometimes mine. And inevitably we end up in some state of undress, exploring and touching and, well, making out. Heavily. With a healthy side of petting.

It never occurred to me that this might not be normal. That people who are dating do other things besides try and figure out every conceivable way to make their significant other moan their name.

But now, I can't stop wondering about it.

"Do you think we spend too much time making out?" I repeat tentatively, running my hand down the curve of his shoulder absent-mindedly.

Peeta sits up slightly, clearing his throat, and I can tell he's not following me. "Do _you _think we spend too much time making out?"

"No, I like it. A lot." I say, without hesitating. "But… should we be doing other things?"

And it's like I can see the light bulb go off in his head. "What did Johanna say to you?"

I tell him - that she'd cornered me near craft services and huffed openly at me. "You don't call, you don't write," she'd said. "More power to you for finally getting some, but when's the honeymoon phase over? I'm sick of playing third wheel to Finn and Annie. Don't you ever come up for air?"

Until she said that, I'd assumed we were only doing what most other people in our situation would do. And it's not that I particularly care what other people do - but I _do_ care what Peeta thinks.

"We come up for air," he insists defensively. "We went to bed before midnight last night."

In reality, we ended up crashing hard after spending two hours doing some good old-fashioned half-naked heavy petting.

"I mean, I wouldn't elect to spend any more time around Johanna than I have to, anyway," I say. "But we used to do stuff. Hang out. Watch TV."

"It was a lot of fun," Peeta admits pensively. "I mean don't get me wrong, I'm not going to advocate for less kissing. But we should still do that. Hang out, I mean."

"Okay," I agree. "Let's."

"So no funny business tonight," he says, his mouth set in a thin line that hints at seriousness, even though there's still a playful sparkle in his eye.

"None whatsoever," I agree.

"We're staying clothed. We're gonna go to bed at a normal hour."

"We could watch a movie," I suggest.

"That's pretty normal," he says with a nod. "It's settled. Movie. Bed. Clothing."

I scrunch my nose, then. "Except I need to shower."

He blinks at me. "Did I just say clothing? I thought I said clothing."

"I guess I don't _have_ to shower naked…" I say.

He feigns as though he's considering this.

"Or I could go up to my place."

He frowns at that. "It's cool, just shower here."

I nod, and move off the bed. "Pick something good to watch. But no secret spies or complicated plots. I've had enough intrigue for one day." And then I stop before I cross the threshold into the hallway. "Wait. I think I do need to go up to my place. I need, uh… clothes."

"I have shirts, you know," is his simple reply.

I give him a pointed look. "Underclothes."

And he smiles in return, like he just remembered something humorous. "Funny story," he says, by way of explanation. "When the laundry service came by today, a couple of pairs of your, uh… underclothes were with mine."

I blush. I can't help it. I know the company that handles all the laundry for the crew are total strangers. I know they probably don't even know _who's_ laundry they're doing, let alone care that a woman's underwear is mixed in with a man's. But it's just so… _obvious_.

"They're in the top drawer," he says simply.

"At least I don't have to bother bringing any down now," I mumble as I head for the bathroom.

* * *

I breeze through my shower, my eagerness to spend more time with Peeta handily trumping the desire to linger under the hot stream of water. Within minutes, I've wrapped myself in a fluffy towel – courtesy of Effie's impeccable attention to aesthetic, no doubt - and towel-dried my hair.

Back in Peeta's room, I rifle through the top drawer in his neatly organized dresser and grab the underwear he said would be there and the first t-shirt I can find. Instinctively, I bring it to my nose, inhaling the exquisite scent of cologne that somehow lingers on all of his clothing. I love it.

After dressing, I pile my still-damp hair on top of my head in a messy bun before going to join Peeta in the living room.

He's sitting on the couch, legs propped up on his coffee table, and completely engrossed in his Netflix queue. So much so that he doesn't spare me so much as a passing glance as I move across the room and sit next to him, curling my legs underneath my body.

"We've got a few choices," he informs me. "There's _The Optimist's How-To Guide_, _I Can See For Miles_, the _Mutant League _prequel… oh my God."

I've been too busy watching the screen as he scrolls through our choices to notice that he's no longer doing the same. Instead, his eyes are wide, fixed on me, with an unexpected glint of lust.

"What?"

His eyes are traveling all over me now, and he looks like he almost can't believe what he's seeing. Is my shirt see-through or something?

I glance down, and can't help the grin that crawls onto my face when I realize what's got him so interested in me all of a sudden.

It's an old t-shirt – I'd guess he's been wearing it for years. Simple, dark blue with a bold yellow logo above a large, block-lettered M:

**The University of Michigan**

I'm practically swimming in the shirt, but the way I'm sitting, it rides up to rest on my upper thighs, exposing a large portion of my tanned, smooth legs.

And Peeta is looking at me like I'm some kind of goddess. Like I'm not even real.

"That," he breathes, "is the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

"It's a t-shirt," I tell him plainly, but I can't ignore the way my body starts to come alive under his lusty gaze.

He sets the remote down. "It's a _Michigan_ t-shirt," he informs me. "Mine. And you're in it."

And I know he's a fan. I've heard the way he and Finnick talk in detail about the school's basketball and football teams, debating the merits of new players and wondering which seasoned upperclassmen might go pro. I've watched him monitor liveblogs of games religiously while we're on set, fretting when his team doesn't do well, celebrating when they pull out a win.

I guess I just didn't realize he liked them _this _much.

"I don't know, it feels like it's kind-of big…" I say, playfully, twisting the hem of the shirt between my fingers as I grin at him.

"It's perfect," he says, leaning into me. "You're perfect. You're fulfilling a fantasy I didn't even know I had."

I lean back against the arm of the couch, then, stretching out my legs and letting the shirt gather at my hips, exposing my underwear to him. "I'll keep that in mind. For when we're _not_ being normal."

"Can we be normal tomorrow?" He asks, his voice low and throaty and impossible to deny. And I am _definitely _not going to argue with that.

I barely have a chance to nod before he closes the distance between us. In the time it takes me to blink, he moves across the couch and hovers above me, both hands braced on the arm of the couch as leans down to bring our mouths together.

The effect he has on me is instantaneous. The moment his lips meld with mine, the heat that started stirring inside me moments ago begins to spread – through my limbs and up into my face, until my thoughts feel like they're coming in slow motion; down into my core, where I feel the now-familiar need for him stoking rapidly.

Despite the limitations we face, lying entangled on his narrow couch, we manage to fall into a position that works for both of us. Peeta uses a throw pillow to brace himself on one elbow, freeing the other hand to explore my body. He frames my face, thumb caressing my jawline as he sucks my lower lip into his mouth. I moan softly against him, tilting up to allow him deeper access. And when our tongues meet, dancing tenderly, I plunge my hands under his thin white t-shirt and scrape my fingers against the smooth, hot skin of his back; my silent plea for more.

Peeta's hand travels tortuously down my neck and shoulder, raising goosebumps on my arms as his fingers tease the sensitive area near the curve of my collarbone. When his hand skates against the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt, he lifts his head to gaze down at me again. His eyes fix on the way the faded yellow letters span across my chest and he sucks in a breath.

"Fuck, Katniss," he murmurs as he dives down and nuzzles my neck. "You're gonna be the end of me."

"It's a _t-shirt_," I laugh, though I can't deny I'm pleased with how turned on he is, college logo or no college logo.

And he nips gently at the skin under my earlobe. "I know. I'm sick, I need help."

I grin at this, cradling his head against me and wrapping a leg around his waist.

When he responds by rolling his hips into mine, I gasp my approval at the pleasurable friction he creates, and lift my hips for more. But Peeta's got other plans.

He rears up slightly on his knees and strips his shirt off, leaving him in nothing but the worn, low-riding jeans that fit him perfectly.

Then he turns his attention to me, using both hands to ignite my body. He cups my breasts gently, making me cry out, before studiously caressing the curve of my hip. Even though he isn't making direct contact with my skin, the heat in his gaze and the warmth of his hands help to stimulate me, making my need for him stronger.

And then his hands start to make their way down my legs, tracing patterns and making me shiver with pleasure. Because I know once he starts touching me there, he can never wait too long before he moves on to more… intimate parts of my body.

But tonight, when I open my thighs to give him easier access, he surprises me by ignoring the invitation and instead taking my leg in his hands. Using his thumbs, he massages my foot for just a moment, before lifting it to his mouth and placing a delicate kiss on my ankle.

He doesn't stop there. Gently, sensually, never taking his eyes off mine, he starts to kiss his way up my calf, pausing to gently lick the curve under my knee.

I'm mesmerized as he moves slowly up my body, pressing his mouth to the inside of my thigh. It's insanely hot – how focused he is on my skin, how close he's getting to the place I want him the most. And the sensation of his mouth – wet and warm – is so new, and so intoxicating, that it takes me several seconds of just staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes before it occurs to me what he might actually be trying to _do_.

He switches to the other leg and starts the process all over again, and my breath catches in my throat when I feel the tickle of his tousled hair against my thigh.

"Is this okay?" He asks, and while he has a deliciously wicked gleam in his eye, I know it's a question I'm meant to answer.

Is this okay? It's the closest thing he has to a mantra when we're in the bedroom. There's not a single thing that occurs between us without him asking me if I'm comfortable with it. It reminds of the poster boards that used to hang in Panem High during Sexual Health Awareness Week. They said "Consent is Sexy." Back then, I thought it seemed silly and flippant. But it turns out the annoyingly organized student council members were onto something - because Peeta wanting me to be engaged and at ease during our sexual endeavors only makes me want him more.

"I don't know," I tell him honestly. "What are you doing?" Still, we haven't broken eye contact, and his steady, lust-filled gaze is almost as erotic as the things he's doing with his hands and mouth.

"I want to go down on you," he informs me, before placing another kiss on the inside of my thigh.

And my eyes go wide as I squirm slightly underneath him. Yes, we've done a _lot_. We've taken turns touching each other, and touched each other at the same time. We've had our mouths and hands in some extremely intimate places. But not that.

He sees my reaction, and smiles gently at me. "It's okay if you don't want me to."

But oddly enough, I do. I'm actually a little ashamed of how _much _I want him to. Because I know how good his mouth feels when it's on my breasts or my neck and I can't imagine how good it's going to feel when…

"Okay," I say shakily, peering down at him and hoping he can't see how red my cheeks are. The smile on his face is scintillating - like I've just given him some kind of present he can't wait to unwrap. He hooks his fingers through my underwear and gently pulls down them and off of me. Then he replaces his mouth with his tongue, licking a slow, gentle line up the inside of my thigh. The sensation goes straight into my core.

Oh. Fuck. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. It feels too good. I might die.

I buck my hips up without even meaning to, and Peeta laughs throatily from between my thighs.

"You okay?"

I nod, gasping slightly. "Just sensitive."

"Sensitive is good," he says, his voice almost a purr, before returning his attention to my legs. He lifts my hips just slightly, wrapping an arm under each leg and curling his hands around my hips. "Just tell me what feels good, okay?"

My heart is already racing, and I feel like every fiber of my being is focused on him, there between my legs, looking up at me. "I - I don't know what feels good, I've never done this," I remind him.

He smiles at me, eyes dark with want. "Then we'll figure it out together."

Then he gently pulls my legs open a bit wider, and my breath catches in my throat as he looks at me one last time.

"I'm gonna start. okay?"

I nod, pushing back into the couch with my body to steel myself and closing my eyes. Because I don't think I can take _feeling_ him do this and _watching _him do it at the same time. It'll just be too much.

He starts by placing a tender kiss on the outside of my folds - clearly testing my reaction. That sensation alone enough for me to groan and lift my hips into his mouth again.

So he does it again. And again.

And then he uses his tongue.

"Oh fuck, Peeta," I moan as I tangle my fingers in his hair to hold his head where it is. It feels too good, as he flattens his tongue and downs it down my folds before gently pushing in between them.

My legs rock up, creating a kind of cradle around his head, as I instinctively open myself more to him. And he keeps a steady grip on my legs, holding me steady against the mattress so he can run his tongue through me repeatedly, lapping at the liquid desire that's gathered there.

I try to stay coherent enough to tell him what feels best. But it _all _feels so damn good - whether he's kissing or licking or nibbling - that I have a hard time doing anything other than writhing against him and moaning obscenities. He must interpret that to mean I like what he's doing, because he certainly doesn't stop tasting me enthusiastically.

And just when I think it couldn't feel any better, he moves one hand so it's working in tandem with his mouth, drawing deliberate, agonizing circles around my clit.

I didn't know I was capable of making the noises that come out of my mouth. But they seem to inspire him. And without pausing, he moves his finger to dip inside me and covers my clit with his tongue, pressing down into it delicately.

It's impossible, how good it feels. My eyes fly open, and I look down at him, his face obscured by the juncture of my thighs. But I can see the way his cheeks hollow in as he sucks my clit into his mouth.

"I'm gonna come," I cry. "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna…"

And he presses me down into the couch cushion, working his fingers in and out of me in matching time with the rhythm of his tongue. His other hand travels up, under his shirt and his fingers toy with my nipple, adding to the overwhelming stimulation that's wracking my body.

I look down again - my eyes take in the blonde hair, made messy by my incessant urging on. His blue eyes, now dark with desire, as he intently watches me fall apart against his mouth.

The pleasure, wound tightly in my core, releases all at once and sends me undulating against him as wave after wave of my orgasm courses through me.

"Peeta," I moan his name, loud and long, as I stiffen against him and ride it out. When it finally subsides, I collapse, spent and shaking, as Peeta peppers tiny, sweet kisses on the inside of my thighs again.

"Oh my God," I pant, grasping for him. He moves swiftly, then, and within seconds he's once again hovering over me. With trembling hands, I quickly undo the button and zipper on his jeans and slide them down - just enough so I can reach into his boxer briefs.

"Fuck. _Fuck_," he murmurs against me, using both hands to prop himself against the arm of the couch as he peers down in between our bodies and watches as I stroke him with both hands. "I'm so close, Katniss."

I can't stop watching his face as he watches me pump his erection. It's captivating, how turned on he is - but I want to do something for him. Something that's just as new and pleasurable as the incredible act he just did for me.

So I pause for only a second to dip my hand between my thighs, coating it with the moisture that's gathered there. And then I start stroking him again, coating him in my arousal.

He bucks down into my hand, moaning my name. And after just a couple more strokes, he tilts his hips down and comes, spilling himself onto the tops of my thighs.

I lay underneath him, still struggling to catch my breath, until he maneuvers us so that we're lying side by side. I feel his arms folding around me and pulling me into a lazy embrace.

"We're really bad at this," he says, kissing the top of my head.

"Hmm?" Is my half-conscious reply.

"Being normal," he explains.

I run a hand along his bare chest, then, before peering down to examine myself. "Well, we didn't ruin the shirt. So that's a plus."

He nods enthusiastically. "Definitely a plus. Because I'm gonna need you to wear this again. Possibly every night."

I roll my eyes at him. But I can't ignore the warm rush of affection I feel for him as he looks down at me.

"Movie?" I say, lazily reaching for the remote. And we actually manage to pick one - a weird science fiction movie called _Study Hall_. Peeta wraps a throw blanket around us, and we settle in.

I almost make it through the opening title sequence before I drift off to sleep. But when I wake up in the morning with a horrendously stiff neck and Peeta snoring softly in my ear, I don't regret missing the movie at all.

I lift the collar of Peeta's shirt to my mouth, breathing in its scent. And I can still smell his cologne, but now it's mixed with the scent of my lilac soap. It smells like us.

That's normal enough for me.

- end -


End file.
